God keeps his holy mysteries Just on the outside of man's dream. To hear their pinions rise and sink, Things nameless! which, in passing so, Yet, touching so, they draw above Our common thoughts to Heaven's unknown; Our daily joy and pain advance To a divine significance, Our human love-O mortal love, That light is not its own! And sometimes horror, chills our blood To be so near such mystic Things, And we wrap round us, for defence, Our purple manners, moods of senseAs angels, from the face of God, Stand hidden in their wings. And sometimes, through life's heavy swound Mrs. Browning, XXIX. AMONG THE HYACINTHS. We have left the world behind- Oh! this is indeed to live, To be free to dream and to dare When all that the busy world can give, Is a murmur on the air. In the wood where the hyacinths grow; Till the day, with its soul of flame, So but once we may live these hours, For the bright spring moments die, And the careless jest and the low reply, And through life, ah! never again But who leaves the world behind, the wind, That sweetly call him back: That breathe from the wild-wood flowers- "To question its depth and truth, But to do great deeds in our golden youth, "To scorn the slave, who lies, And basks in the summer sun, Who leaves to lament him when he dies, "Then up from amongst the flowers, The path is wide and free, And earth claims of man his noblest powers, Miss Braddon. XXX. "Orat qui laborat." Pause not to dream of the future before us: Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us, Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus, Unintermitting goes up into heaven! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing: Never the little seed stops in its growing: More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. "Labour is worship!" the robin is singing: Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect the rich coral bower; Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labour is life!-'tis the still water faileth; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth, Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labour is glory! the flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Play the sweet keys would'st thou keep them in tune! Labour is rest-from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill. Labour is health-lo! the husbandman reaping, Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not though shame, sin and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee; Look to yon blue heaven smiling beyond thee; Rest not content in thy darkness- -a clod, Work-for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labour-all labour is noble and holy, Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. F. S. Osgood. |